Why I write

The reason writers must bare their souls on the page is because someone out there in the world desperately needs to hear our story.– Cherrie Moraga, as quoted by Ollin Morales

Several years ago, I read this particular quote on Facebook, before it got big. And it struck a chord in me. It reminded me of the many times I have read other authors, other writers, and come away far richer than I had been before I read them.

Yet I could not often reply to these authors to thank them. Some I could, because they were still alive and had an email address I could write to. Others were long dead or intimidated me because they had achieved a greatness I could only dream of.

Yet for a very long time, I thought long and hard about the words I wrote. Not about the actual words I wrote, but the reasons for writing. Why spend hours writing when I could be busy gaming, listening to music, checking out Facebook, Twitter and Google+, or even just reading other author’s words?

The answer came back to me as I was looking back on one of my older entries with a reference from another friend.

The words I needed to hear were my own. They are my immortalised dreams, a point of reference to look back on. They remind me of the spirit I had, of the promises I made to myself, of the grandiose statements I made.

Statements which I see, for now, are ashes.

Ashes, however, often hide ember. And ember can be stirred to create new fires. The trick is to get some flammable stuff to catch the fire first, then build it into a long-burning passion.